


the Kid in the Grey

by IraCreasman



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boarding School, Books, Collecting Spells, Fantasy, Haunted House, Inky Specter, Magical Realism, Nonbinary, Paranormal, Portal Fantasy, School Life, Specter, Tea, They/Them, ghost - Freeform, ghost hunter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28340232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraCreasman/pseuds/IraCreasman





	1. Hallway of Peers

**Trial 01: Hallway of Peers**

The kid in the grey blinked rapidly, keeping their shoulders hunched, gaze down, steps careful. The last class of the day had ended. They couldn't have said what the lesson was. It was 3:30 on a snowy, Friday afternoon, and they were obligation free for the next sixty-four and one half hours.

There was only the gauntlet that was Fairchild Academy's hallways.

The kid in the grey did their best to avoid contact. They slipped this way and that, pausing to let a gaggle of peers past, hurrying to shoot the gap, twisting and leaning and dodging through the crowd.

"Why're they walking like that?"

"Do ya' think they're a little slow?"

"Always with the gray."

The kid in the grey hated when people said it like that. They preferred grey to gray, and could feel the difference when spoken. They bit their tongue to keep their teeth from chattering.

"Hardly ever see 'em around."

"A real shut in."

"What a weirdo."

It was impossible, of course, to pass through the crowded school hallway without, at the very least, brushing into a peer. Nonetheless, they did their best, determined to manage it one day. It helped distract from the snide comments.

The kid in the grey paused at the juncture to the entryhall also housed the entrance to the administrative eoffices. The space was typically crowded at the end of the day. Someone bumped into them from behind and stumbled on without even a cursory apology.

"Is that kid new?"

"The headmistress should look at their diary."

"Why can't they wear something other than gray?"

Fairchild Academy had a dresscode: dark jacket, pale buttonup, dark slacks. The jacket should match the slacks should match the socks. Shoes were black and well-polished. Ties could be anything so long as they weren't offensive. Within those parameters, students could choose whatever colors they liked. Some chose subtle but powerful; some chose loud and patterned; some chose a favorite set of colors.

The kid in the grey always,

always,

always chose grey.

They swerved and ducked and threaded, unable to avoid contact with their peers, headed for the backway rather than the front entrance. Snow dropped gently outside. They could see it through the narrow vertical windows in the utilitarian back doors. They'd quite neatly made it when they were bumped into again, harder this time.

"Oops. Sorry, Gray."

The kid in the grey knew that voice: Alexander Stane – star basketball player, lead chorister, and unrepentant bully. It didn't help that he was infuriatingly handsome.

Usually, the kid in the grey managed to escape Stane's notice.

They stumbled but remained upright and immediately shifted course, making for the administrative offices rather than the back exit. Someone moved to block the way, but the kid in the grey easily ducked the other way, hurrying their step. Stane and his goons were cowards at best, unwilling to sustain their harassment in the presence of an authority figure.

"Hold up, Gray."

It didn't bother the kid that people called them Grey, like it was their name. Except that they said it 'Gray' instead of 'Grey'. Even if others couldn't hear the difference, it sounded wrong in their head.

Stane grabbed ahold of the kid's backpack at the top, pulling them to a stuttering stop. The junction of the classroom hallways and the main entrance was still filled with a Friday afternoon crowd. The kid in the grey wondered if Stane was about to rough them up with a full audience, and so near the administrative offices.

Surely not.

Even so, it wouldn't do to allow Stane any opportunity.

Grey leaned forward and dropped sharply, letting their weight pull the backpack from Stane's grip. Stane grunted and cursed. Grey threaded the throng, making for the administrative offices.

Behind them, Stane huffed. "What a freak."

 _Sore loser_.

Fairchild Academy was an old institution, going back at least two centuries, and the building was proof. Though it was constantly updated with the latest in educational technology, it was also stately in its age: brick facades, fluted cornices, and wooden paneling. There was even a clock tower guarded by gargoyles.

No room in the school exemplified its grandiloquent designs more than the administrative offices. The floors were stone tile in a variety of muted colors, each square meter its own pattern or mosaic. A wooden counter, stained deep cherry red, enclosed the reception area. The windows upon the courtyard were tall and arched, and above each was another, circular window of stained glass worked into historic emblems: a red sunburst, a blue unicorn, a purple albatross.

Grey found an empty, waiting-room style chair, at odds with the old-style grandeur, and sat. They didn't bother checking the door. There was no way Stane or his goons would continue their harassment here, in the seat of power, so near to Headmistress Munroe.

They sat in their stillness and let the studious babble of the office foyer, the hub of power in the school, ebb and flow about them. It was a comforting lull of clacking keyboards, telephone chimes, and lowkey, end-of-the-week conversation.

The flow was interrupted by the entrance of Headmistress Munroe. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with dark skin and greying hair caught in a bundle of braided curls. She was like a star, the center of the metaphorical solar system of Fairchild Academy. All eyes attention was directed at her.

Ms. Brant, the administrative secretary, stood and approached. Grey didn't pay attention to the conversation, instead focusing on the way all the energy in the grand old room shifted to revolve around the headmistress. They wondered if such power was worth the attention. If others noticed them enough to respect them, would they move aside in the hallway? Would that attract even more ire from people like Stane?

"Do you need something?"

Grey blinked. Ms. Brant's question had been directed at them.

"Oh. Um." They looked about and found a clock on the far wall. They'd spent just over a quarter hour in the office. Headmistress Munroe was gone. The officed had quieted. "No. Thank you."

Grey stood and left.

The hallway outside the administrative office was largely empty. A few students waited for rides, a few waited for friends. Grey waited for neither and made for the back exit. Going out the front would have put them in the expansive courtyard at the center of campus. It made for a shorter walk to the dormhall, but they were more likely to see people and it wasn't inconceivable that Stane had waited around.

Grey preferred the longer walk anyway.

Snow still fell when Grey pushed out the back door. A concrete pad sloped away to a largely empty staff parking lot. A quick look around told them Stane wasn't on this side of the building.

Grey pulled their hood up, shoved their hands in their pockets, and walked into the thick snowfall. The world was swallowed by a pale void. They didn't feel cold. There was no wind. Only the squeaking crunch of their shoes in the snow made a sound over the thick quiet of falling snow.

They turned right and walked around the backside of the gymnasium between the large building and the playing fields beyond. Often there were students out there, kicking a ball around or running the track. Today the fields weren't even visible through the thickening snow.

They turned right again and walked along the back of Achebe Dormhall. Beyond the dormhall was a sparse wood leading to foothills and eventually to the [name] Mountains. Grey could just make out the shadows of the wood through the snow.

The back door of the dormhall was a plain metal door with a vertical window on the left. Grey swiped their card against the reader next to the door and it beeped, then unlocked with a click. Grey entered the commons and took the time to stomp snow from their shoes and brush it from their hoodie. Already, those who boarded at Fairchild Academy were popping popcorn in the kitchenette, piling up pillows and cushions, arguing over what to watch first for movie night.

Grey knew they were welcome. Technically, every boarder in Achebe Dormhall was welcome to movie night. But it would be awkward. Grey had attended the first weekend of the semester but had felt so uncomfortable and out of place that they'd snuck out before the first act finished.

They'd never gone back.

Grey's dormroom was the standard five meters by five. The walls were cinderblock painted off white. The bed was a standard twin in a plain bedframe and stood in the far corner from the door. The desk was in the other corner. A window was centered in the wall between desk and bed. A built-in wardrobe stood just by the door.

Grey had secured work study with the janitorial staff on occasional weekends, earning money to make up the difference between scholarship and tuition. There was a bit left over for odds and ends.

Grey’d purchased an old, beat up bookcase and filled it with all the cheap, battered, and discarded books they could find. A refurbished record player stood upon the desk next to a plastic crate holding a dozen and a half records. On the tiny nightstand, at the head of the bed, they'd put an old desk lamp with a green glass shade and brass trim. The lamp was their newest purchase and tonight it would finally be used for reading.

At the back of the desk, in neat little stacks, were small, leather-bound notebooks held with an elastic ribbon. Grey's thoughts often wandered off to far-off nowheres and though they didn't fancy themselves a writer, journaler, or artist of any kind, they often jotted down notes on these other spaces their mind went. They were a record of mental journeys. They helped keep Grey grounded and they liked to flip through them from time to time.

There was a new notebook under their pillow, at the ready, just in case.

Grey kicked off their shoes, put their messenger bag in the wardrobe, and changed into an old pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized tshirt. They didn't bother turning on the overhead light. It was too bright and buzzed incessantly. Instead, they turned on the bedside lamp, casting a dim yellow glow. They put on one of their new favorite records by a rock band that had been famous a few decades ago, and let the hiss and crackle unknot their shoulders. As the first plaintive guitar riffs bounced through the speakers, Grey scanned the bookcase, selecting the first book that jumped out at them. Grey had always chosen books like that, almost like the book chose them instead.


	2. Feed the Cat

**Sidequest: Feed the Cat**

“Oh. Right. Can’t forget.”

Grey tossed the book on the bed and went to the wardrobe. The bottom of the wardrobe housed a pair of pullout drawers. They opened one and withdrew a bag of cat food and a small glass bowl.

Pets weren’t allowed at Achebe Dormhall and feeding the wildlife was firmly discouraged at Fairchild Academy. But the scruffy calico wasn’t Grey’s pet, she was a stray who wandered about campus, and cats were domesticated, so Grey reasoned it wasn’t the same as tossing bread crumbs to squirrels.

Grey opened the bag and scooped the glass bowl through, filling it.

The window between the head of the bed and the desk had a simple metal latch and swung open with a faint squeak. The screen was easy to pop out of the frame. The wood beyond the dormhall was completely lost to the snow, fog, and growing darkness.

Between the dormhall and the sidewalk was a row of decorative bushes, and between the bushes and the building was a narrow space of earth, largely protected from snowfall by the bushes and the dormhall’s eaves. Grey had put a ratty old towel and a threadbare tshirt there a few weeks after they’d started feeding the calico. They’d never actually seen the cat lying on the clothes, but there was a distinctly cat shaped impression in the little pile and a respectable buildup of fur.

Grey put the full bowl on the ground near the clothes and picked up the empty bowl they’d set out that morning.

“You out there, little kitty?” Grey whispered into the snow. “It’s going to be a cold night. You can come inside if you want.” 

There was no answer.

Once, the calico had shown up just as Grey was putting out a new bowl of food. Grey had tried to get the cat to come close enough to pet. They’d even tried to encourage the cat to come inside, but the cat had sat and waited for Grey to close the window before approaching.

Grey closed the window, replaced the screen, and went to bed.

Under the covers, a rock ballad whispering through the speakers of their record player, snow falling in ever heavier clumps, Grey looked at the cover of the book that’d come to hand.


	3. Dr. Paxian and the Inky Specter

Dr. L. Paxian stood at the wrought iron gate to the overgrown garden preceding the ramshackle house. Parts of the garden were overtaken with stacks of lumber, bags of concrete, and a lockable shed likely filled with tools. A roll-off dumpster stood in the street out front. All signs the old home was in the throes of remodel. Twilight still stood upon the horizon, not yet ready to give way to full dark.

Dr. Paxian put a hand upon the gate.

She could feel, in that space inbetween, the cool whisper of death deferred. Her client had been right. The house was undeniably haunted.

Dr. Paxian looked back over her shoulder at Grey. “You ready?”

Grey blinked, uncertain. “I’m sorry…” they looked about, but there was no one else on the street. “Are you… do you mean me?”

Dr. Paxian raised an eyebrow.

Grey had read about that eyebrow. There were a dozen paperbacks featuring Dr. Lunar Paxian, paranormal investigator. She was renown for those who knew of such things. At least, she was in the world of the books in which she existed. Grey had read about her tall stature; her bright yellow eyes; her dark skin; her smooth, bald pate; her battered, stiff-brimmed, oilskin hat; and how she could convey exasperated contempt with nothing but a raised eyebrow.

“Right,” said Grey. “Of course. Well then, um, yes?”

Dr. Paxian shook her head. “First day with the temp agency, kid?” She didn’t wait for an answer before nodding at the large canvass dufflebag on the sidewalk at Grey’s feet. “Bring that.”

Grey looked at the battered old duffle with the zipper that didn’t quite go all the way and the thick-threaded patch jobs. They knew it was filled with a variety of tools Dr. Paxian might need for whatever paranormal threat was in that house. Grey knew Dr. Paxian had a different hapless assistant every book and knew carrying the duffle was a test.

Dr. Paxian turned back to the house, put her hand on the gate, and closed her eyes.

Grey picked up the duffle. It was heavy and awkward, but there was a long shoulder strap tucked along a side pocket, easy to miss for those not paying attention. Grey untucked the strap and slung it over their shoulder, across their chest. They weight of the bag settled across their shoulders. Dr. Paxian didn’t seem to notice, but Grey knew, from reading the novels, that Dr. Paxian always noticed whether her assistants struggled with the bag.

“What do I call you?” Dr. Paxian said without opening her eyes.

“Grey.” They shifted so the bag settled a bit more comfortably.

“You know what we’re getting into here, Grey?”

Grey stepped up to the iron gate and looked across the overgrown yard to the old house. They didn’t have Dr. Paxian’s talent for sensing the paranormal, but they’d read all the Dr. Paxian books and had a good idea how they typically went.

“Based on all the tools and stuff, someone was remodeling this house. They called you, which means something paranormal is going on. My guess is a haunting. Sometimes messing with old houses stirs up memories.”

Dr. Paxian blinked down at Grey. “You a sensitive?”

Grey shook their head and looked away. Dr. Paxian’s intense yellow eyes were hard to meet for long.

“But there’s something… You’re not from around here, are you?”

Part of them insisted that this wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. But they took a deep breath of cold evening air. It smelled of rot long settled and rain yet to come. Grey knew what it was to get caught up in a good book, to have the world fade away, to lose themselves in a daydream, and it never went so far as this. This looked, sounded, smelt, and felt real.

The edges of reality blurred a bit, shivering like tissue paper in a brittle wind. Grey knew if they looked at it too hard, it would snap and they’d find themselves back in bed at Achebe Dormhall.

“No,” said Grey, and their voice settled in this place that existed only between paperback covers. “I’m not from around here. But I’ve heard of you, Dr. Paxian. You’re famous, in certain circles.”

Dr. Paxian grunted.

Twilight diminished. Street lamps up and down the street flickered to. Night would be upon them in moments. Dr. Paxian unlatched and pushed open the iron gate. It squeaked. The sound echoed off the street behind them but was swallowed by the yard before. Dr. Paxian strode into the yard, footfalls quiet on the paving stones.

Grey followed.

“Close the gate,” Dr. Paxian said. “We don’t want to accidently let anything out.”

Grey complied, turning back to the gate. They couldn’t help but notice that the street lamp nearest the house had failed to light. The gate closed with a metallic snap. By the time Grey turned again to follow, Dr. Paxian was already halfway down the paving stones to the house. They hurried to follow, shrinking from the thick, chilly shadows on either side.

“Tell me what you know of the undead, Grey.”

“Um.” Grey tried to remember the rules for magic in the books featuring Dr. Paxian. They were vaguely based upon old real-world beliefs about the twenty-seven realms and balance of body, mind, and soul, but the more Grey tried to remember from outside the story, the more tenuous it felt.

“I suppose that would have been a bit much to hope for. Attend, young Grey.”

Dr. Paxian’s tone held no rebuke, but Grey winced nonetheless. The world settled, and they focused on Dr. Paxian’s voice.

“There are twenty-seven realms of existence. Ours is the Prime Realm, the realm around which each other realm orbits. The realms of Body, Mind, and Soul orbit most closely, constantly overlapping, constantly in Intersect with the Prime Realm. In turn, every living being native to the Prime Realm is a unique balance of those three. Upon death, a significant imbalance in Body, Mind, or Soul, can result in undeath.”

“So a specter would… have unbalanced Body?” Grey said.

Dr. Paxian stopped at the stone stairs, five broad, stone steps leading to the thick wooden door covered by an arched stoop. She looked down at Grey.

“Precisely. Specters, and their variations, always have an imbalance in Body but have strong, if warped, mind and soul. They are frequently at the mercy of the harshest of their emotions and driven by obsession. Further, the undead crave what they lack. A specter will often try to consume a living body. That they cannot reliably interact physically, typically drives them mad.”

Grey gripped the strap across their chest with one hand. “All right. Well. Good to know.”

“There’s nothing to fear, young Grey. It’s rare one of my assistants comes to lasting harm.”

In none of the books had any of Dr. Paxian’s assistants been hurt. Frightened, certainly. Imperiled, definitely. But never hurt. Or at least, not terribly.

The edges of reality fluttered again, like a book riffled through. Grey could feel themselves snug in bed, the blankets pulled close, the room dark, snow drifting with quiet insistence outside. Thinking about Dr. Paxain’s world from the outside, it seemed, made their position within tenuous.

“You with me, Grey?”

The world returned and Grey took a breath. “Yeah.”

“Good. Focus on the now. If you’re distracted, you make my job harder.”

Grey blushed and nodded.

Dr. Paxian pulled a set of keys from the pocket of her jacket, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. It was a ponderous door and creaked ominously. Then she lifted her hand, palm up, and muttered a quick chant.

Grey felt a shiver along their shoulders, like a bit of a memory, an expansion of understanding, the potential for something new. But when they tried to focus on it, to grasp hold of it, the shiver fled.

At the conclusion of the chant, a trio of whisps appeared, shedding a gentle blue light, enough to illuminate the darkness without blinding them. The whisps of light took to circling about Dr. Paxian like lazy fireflies, bobbing about, a widdershins orbit.

“Specters tend to prefer the rooms that meant the most to them in life. Typically that’s a study or a bedroom, which suggests the second floor. But we’ll search each floor in turn, methodically.”

They entered into a small foyer.

Dr. Paxian stopped, looked around, then took a big breath. “Oy! Ghost! Come on out!”

Grey winced and shied back, startled by Dr. Paxian’s booming voice in the stifling quiet. After several moments, the only response was a bit of settling dust in an unseen corner.

Grey straightened and tugged on the strap of the duffle. “Does that ever work?”

Dr. Paxian grinned at them. “Not so far. But one day.”

Dr. Paxian lead them to the right into a large parlor with a massive stone fireplace, a great chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, and a dusty old piano in one corner. Dr. Paxian kept to the edges of the room, avoiding walking under the chandelier.

“Just a precaution,” she said with a wink.

The floor was hard, their footfalls echoed dully in the large, hard room. The cold light of the whisps cast long, soft shadows that shifted as the whisps did. Dr. Paxian examined old wallpaper seams and wires poking through the plaster and the big, old, dusty fireplace. To either side of the fireplace was a door leading to a porch, the roof of which had fallen in. The rubble made the porch impassible, but one of the doors had fallen out and the cold night eddied about.

As they approached the piano, In the last corner of their circuit of the room, Dr. Paxian stopped and held out a hand.

“In the duffle, there’s a brown leather bag.”

Grey pulled the strap over their head and went down one knee, setting the duffle on the floor. There was a bit of a struggle with the janky zipper, but soon it was open and they were sorting through the jumble of tools within. Grey knew the bag Dr. Paxian was referring to. The little leather bag was treated with a special oil on the inside that kept half a dozen balls of wax supple.

The edges of everything riffled just a bit, so Grey focused on the task.

Within moments, they pulled the bag free, opened it, and handed a pair of the wax balls to Dr. Paxian.

“And a pair for yourself,” Dr. Paxian said.

A faint, high, alternating sound, like a person tapping at the highest keys of a piano, danced about the edge of Grey’s hearing and they looked at the instrument, squatting in its corner, heart racing.

“The wax, young Grey.”

The wax was warm and supple and molded easily in Grey’s fingers. They rolled them into balls and stuffed one in each ear. The damping of sound was a physical pressure upon Grey’s head. Their breathing filled their head and their heartbeat rushed in their ears.

“You in there, ghost?” Dr. Paxian said. “Possessing a piano is awfully cliché. Don’t you want to try something original?” Her voice was thick and far away thanks to the wax in Grey’s ears.

The pressure in the room built even as the temperature dropped.

Dr. Paxian reached into an inside pocket and withdrew an item. While there were all manner of tools in the duffle, she kept a few all-purpose items in her pockets.

“Carefully now,” Dr. Paxian said, as much to herself.

Grey stood, pulling the duffle back over their head. Together, they crept toward the piano. The pressure grew. Their breath clouded. The faint ticking of high-pitched piano keys filtered through the wax. The piano’s shadows, tossed against the wall of the parlor by Dr. Paxian’s illuminating whisps, shivered and vibrated.

Grey watched that shadows. It bobbed and weaved, not to the rhythm of Dr. Paxian’s lazy whisps, but to a song, a waltz, on the edge of hearing. It pushed and bulged. Something wet dripped upon Grey’s left hand, startling them. They held their hand up to find a spot of dark liquid. It ran down their hand, thin as ink. Another drop landed upon their head, and instinctively, they looked up. The ceiling was wet with dark liquid, rippling gently, like a puddle in the rain. Another drip fell and struck Grey upon the forehead.

“Heads up!”

Dr. Paxian’s shout brought Grey’s attention back to the piano. The instrument’s shadow leapt from the wall. The lid of the piano lifted to reveal a massive maw with crooked, misshapen teeth in row upon row, like a inky-fleshed field growing cracked ivory crop. Grey stared into that maw and the shadowed throat beyond, mesmerized by the sudden grotesquerie.

Grey was jerked about by the duffle, swung away from the piano’s shadow, and shoved toward the door to the patio, the one that had fallen out.

“Run! Through the door.”

Grey stumbled forward. A great clanging jangle of piano keys clashed behind and they couldn’t help but look back. The piano shadow had come away from the wall, consuming the corner of the room and lumbering after them on splintered legs.

Dr. Paxian said something under her breath as she hustled them for the open doorway. There was a light and a shiver. Grey’s shoulders tingled with a thought and a possibility, and then they were through.

But rather than on the ruined patio and the collapsed roof, they were back in the foyer. The house was quiet. Grey’s breathing was heavy in their head. They looked around wildly, but there was no sign of the phantom piano. Dr. Paxian removed the wax from one of her ears, cocked her head, then peered around the door jamb into the parlor. She looked at Grey and gave a nod.

Grey removed the wax from their ears. “How did we…”

“A minor teleporting spell of my own creation. But, more interestingly,” she cocked her head at the parlor. “Come take a look.”

Grey carefully stuck their head into the parlor. The piano stood where it had, unchanged. They straighter and looked at Dr. Paxian. “An illusion?”

Dr. Paxian shrugged. “Of a sort. I imagine that piano was important to our specter. A part of her haunted the piano. If you’d been caught in its jaws, it would have been real enough. But there was only enough for a single attack. It’s inert now.”

“Her?”

“Our client told me his dearly departed auntie lived here until she died a month or so ago. I assume that’s who we’re dealing with.” She glanced up the stairwell in the foyer, then shook her head. “We should be diligent. First floor first. Come along, young Grey.”

Dr. Paxian lead them through the dining room, bare of furniture but with a pattern to the faded wallpaper that suggested a hutch had stood along one wall. From the dining room they entered a solar with tall, windows on the eastern wall. The kitchen was likewise bare, with cords and pipes protruding from cubbies and bare patches. No ink dripped from the ceiling, no shadows tried to eat them, and they circled back to the foyer and the foot of the stairs.

“What do you supposed we’ll find up there?” Grey asked.

“Sadness.” Dr. Paxian’s voice was far away. Then she shook her head and looked at them. “But not to worry. That’s what we’re here for.”

At the top of the stairs they found a pair of bedrooms, both empty, even the closets, and a shared bathroom between them. Down a short hallway they came, finally, to the master bedroom.

“Brace yourself, young Grey. I fear this will be unpleasant.” 

The master bedroom was littered with detritus: shattered window glass, scraps of cloth and stuffing, splinters of the headboard, and bits of paper. The room was speckled in and spattering of dark fluid.

“Blood?” Grey whispered the question.

“I don’t think so. Doesn’t smell right.”

Grey took a slow, careful breath through their nose, but couldn’t smell anything but for the old dusty house and the cool, damp night.

The detritus was scattered about the room, some collected in piles, some in drifts against the walls, some sprinkled here and there. It crunched underfoot at Dr. Paxian lead Grey into the room.

Here, Grey could feel her presence. It started with the high, faint notes on the piano downstairs, barely perceptible, making their eye twitch. It was a veneer, a brittle mask over roiling emotions. The notes danced in a rhythm of three, that waltz again. A drip touched upon their right shoulder. Grey put their hand there instinctively. The drop soaked into the fabric of their shirt, faintly warm. It had a gentle smell they couldn’t place. It wasn’t flowery or citrusy or…

“Ink,” Dr. Paxian said. “This specter favors ink.”

They walked further into the room, Grey echoing Dr. Paxian’s caution as she inspected the walls, the corners, the windows, the piles of shattered things. She knelt before a pile of paper scraps.

“Do you hear it?” Grey whispered.

Dr. Paxian nodded, but didn’t look away from the pile. “Use the wax if you like, but that particular hex holds no power now.”

Grey knelt next to her. Dr. Paxian was a tall, broad woman and that was comforting enough, but her demeanor, her focus, was what really put Grey at ease. The brittle, plinking waltz from downstairs was easier to bear when they were next to Dr. Paxian.

“Tell me what you notice,” Dr. Paxian said, gesturing at the pile of torn paper by the light of her conjured whisps.

Grey looked. There was all kinds of paper. Most of it was white with pale blue lines, but there was yellow with darker lines, some was thick, some was patterned, some was speckled with flower petals.

“There’s a lot of it,” Grey said. “Different kinds. I don’t see any markings though. No writing. No drawings. I wonder where the ink…”

Dr. Paxian’s bright yellow gaze was steady, encouraging.

Grey glanced around the room. Everything else, the walls, floor, ceiling, and broken splinters of a life were speckled with ink. But not the paper.

“Do specters work in symbolism?” Grey asked.

“Symbolism and madness.” Dr. Paxian confirmed. “Especially if they were artists when alive.”

Grey touched the drip at their shoulder, dry now. A faint pattering undercut the waltz from downstairs, like rain, but Grey didn’t have to look to the shattered windows to know it wasn’t raining outside. Not yet. Ink dripped from the ceiling.

Dr. Paxian stood. “We’re close.”

The house shivered, holding tight to the emotions threatening to shake them all apart. Turmoil,

despair,

fury.

The master bedroom was directly above the parlor and nearly as big with only a pair of walk-in closets to interrupt the space. Dr. Paxian looked at one for several moments. Pattering ink rained about them gently, but didn’t touch them, like they stood under an umbrella together. When Dr. Paxian looked at the other closet, the ink intensified. The floor around them grew damp, the air grew heavy.

Dr. Paxian approached the second closet and Grey stayed firm at her side. The pattering became a deluge and their circle of reprieve narrowed until their shoulders touched. The footsteps were swallowed the ink upon the floor. It was difficult to see through the falling ink, but when they stood at the doorway to the closet, they could see a staircase at the back.

“I don’t remember seeing a third floor from the outside,” Grey said.

“You didn’t.”

“I suppose that’s where we go next?”

“It is.”

“Wait.” The voice was new. It was high and breathy and scraped with the sound of hundreds of shards of glass sliding over one another.

Grey gasped and jumped and grabbed on to Dr. Paxian’s arm.

“It’s all right, young Grey. She only wants to talk.”

Dr. Paxian patted Grey’s hand where they had a death grip upon the sleeve of her jacket. Grey swallowed hard and nodded, trying to wrestle control of their nerves. The body buzzed and their joints ached and their mind tripped over itself to present a coherent thought. Dr. Paxian pulled Grey’s hand from her sleeve and turned. The deluge of ink diminished.

Grey turned as well. Dr. Paxian put an arm around their shoulders and held them close, grip firm. Her arm rested atop the duffle, reminding Grey they were well equipped for the situation.

The pattering stopped.

Before them stood the shape of a woman, but built from the scraps and splinters that had been scattered about the room. The bits of wood, glass, cloth, and paper shifted this way and that, the shadowy gaps between them sliding at irregular intervals, opening and closing slowly. The sight made Grey nauseous, but they refused to look away.

“Why do you stay?” Dr. Paxian asked.

“This is my home.” Her voice was like pages in the breeze.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Paxian. “Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Her face split with a crack of glass, the breaking of a mask. A pair of gaps opened where her eyes should have been and ink tears slid down her rough cheeks.

“I have died,” she whispered, like ripping cloth. “And are you here to swallow what’s left of me, Sineater?”

Grey ripped their gaze from the woman to Dr. Paxian. They’d known, of course, that Dr. Paxian did that sometimes, with the ghosts that were particularly dangerous and particularly stubborn.

“I could. Is that what you want?”

“I… I…” The air trembled, the room shivered, the house rumbled. The detritus in the shape of a woman vibrated and shifted until every sharp bit was pointed at the two of them.

Dr. Paxian muttered a phrase and took a step back, pulling Grey with them, arm still firmly around their shoulders.

“Stop!” the house shrieked at them.

A now familiar tingle danced up and down Grey’s spined, spinning from shoulder to shoulder, and they felt their mind expand and embrace, like something new, something interesting, something learned.

Dr. Paxian completed the phrase and pulled Grey with her again, backward through the doorway to the walk-in closet. The tingle at Grey’s shoulders intensified and their mind filled. Grey forced themselves to keep their eyes open, staring at the figure of the woman as it broke in to tiny shards flung at them with blind, thoughtless fury. Their vision was filled with gentle grey light and, again, they stood in the foyer of the house.

Dr. Paxain released Grey and patted their shoulder. “All right?”

Grey took a deep breath. Their heart still hammered, their skin still buzzed, but they were unharmed and the panic was subsiding. And something else…

“Sure. What…”

…something else was taking shape. Like a memory written down. Something about the tingle at their shoulders and the phrase Dr. Paxian had muttered and…

“Teleportation spell. Same one as before. Step through one doorway and end up in another.” Dr. Paxian stepped up to the foot of the stairs and looked up. The house was quiet.

Grey tried to grab hold of that feeling, but lay just out of reach.

“Come along, young Grey.”

“Wait.”

Dr. Paxian turned and gave Grey her full, yellow-eyed attention. “Yes?”

“You… you’re not…” Grey took another deep breath. “Are you going to swallow her?”

Dr. Paxian crossed her arms and closed her eyes. “Look, Grey, doing what I do isn’t easy. Sometimes there are hard choices. The ghost in this house is miserable. You saw her. You heard her. I’ll bet you even felt her, all that pain knotted up in the aether. Something awful happened her, and the best thing we can do for the emotions and memories that were once a living human being, is to undo that knot.”

“But she isn’t hurting anyone. Can’t we just…”

“Leave her be? Sure. We could do that. But what happens when the workers come back? Or some kid decides to sneak into the spooky old house? Besides, she may not be hurting anyone, but she is hurting.”

Grey clenched their jaw, but nodded. “All right. What do we do?”

“There’s a black metal box in the bag. Fetch it for me, would you?”

Grey pulled the duffle over their head, set it on the floor, wrangled the zipper open, and searched through the myriad of tools. There was a thick, wooden rod with arcane symbols carved along it. There was a lantern with stained glass panels. There was a couple battered old books and a length of scarlet cloth and pair of deep, purple gloves. Presently, Grey found the box and pulled it free. They knew what was in the box, because they’d read the books, but they didn’t let themselves linger too long on that knowledge.

Dr. Paxian took the box, opened it, and removed an amulet on a plain leather cord. The amulet was a simple circle of lacquered yellow, the same shade as her eyes. But Grey knew there was a face hidden in that plain yellow disc. A face that could open and swallow a ghost at Dr. Paxian’s command.

“Leave the duffle, Grey. I fear we’ve really only two options left.”

“The amulet and what else?”

“A convincing conversation.”

They didn’t speak. Their footsteps were muffled. Even the master bedroom was still and quiet, all the broken bits swept to one side, at the walk-in closet with the stairs at the back, they paused.

“Tell me, Grey. How might a ghost hide a third floor?”

Grey blinked, surprised, then looked at Dr. Paxian who continued to look at the stairs.

“You think I know?”

“I think I want to hear your thoughts.”

Grey looked back at the stairs. “Um. Okay.” They tried to remember what they knew of the books featuring Dr. Paxian. Magic in those books was based on the twenty-seven realms of old tradition. A fluttering of pages tickled their ears and the reality of the haunted house faded around them, but Grey held on to it a moment, thinking about this particular moment from the outside.

“Hiding things seems like a spell of the Inbetween Realm. Illusions are probably from the Dream Realm. Other than that… perhaps a really good paint job?”

They looked at Dr. Paxian, looking at them, yellow eyes unblinking.

“You keep doing that,” Dr. Paxian said. “Your eyes go far away and your edges get all… fuzzy. Are you a ghost?”

Grey let the sound of fluttering pages fade. “No.” The house solidified

“You sure?”

Grey considered a moment. “Pretty sure.”

Dr. Paxian pursed her lips and cocked her head. “A good paint job?”

Grey chucked. “That’s why I’m the assistant.”

Dr. Paxian went first up the stairs. At the top, the found a small, round room with windows on all sides. There was a trunk and a bookshelf and a large comfy chair and a lap desk. In a cup on the bookshelf was a bunch of mismatched pens and pencils, and under that was a stack of notebooks of all variety.

“This was my spot.”

The ghost appeared gently, sitting upon the chair. “We had three children and a bevy of nieces and nephews and I loved them all dearly, but I need a spot for my own, where I could write and read and think and… and just sit.” Her form shifted. She was elderly, she was young; she wore a fine dress, she wore tshirt and jeans; she was peaceful, she wept.

“Mrs. Brandon?” Dr. Paxian said.

The ghost, a pale bluish grey image of a woman, looked from where she sat. “It’s quite all right. I know why you’re here.” Her voice was gentle, like piano keys well-tuned. “I don’t know why I linger, but you won’t convince me to let go.” She leaned back in the chair and put her feet up on the trunk, ankles crossed.

Dr. Paxian put a hand to the yellow amulet. “Very well, Mrs. Brandon.”

But Grey put a hand on her shoulder.

The trunk was a sturdy wooden box with metal reinforced corners. It was stained with a pale golden finish. It was smooth and polished and looked like someone had taken a lot of care and effort in putting it together. Except there were dents all along the front and top and gouges at the seam near the padlock.

“Mrs. Brandon?” Grey’s voice was shaky. The ghost looked at them with a small smile. “That trunk. Did you buy it in a store?”

She shook her head. “Glenn was a carpenter. He made it for me.”

“And what do you keep in it?”

She laughed, a genuine bubbling of mirth with a hint of self-deprecation. “All my little projects. Stories and poems and songs and games. I even learned how to bind them into little handmade books.”

“You never wanted to get them published?” Grey asked.

The ghost of Mrs. Brandon waved a hand and a faint blue flush crept up her cheeks. “I sent a few query letters when I was young. I got a lot of rejection and just one acceptance. An adventure story. It sold well enough, I received some lovely letters, but afterward, I decided that was plenty. My stories were for my own self edification. Glenn liked it when I would read them to him, or we’d play the songs I’d written. But no more than that.”

Grey looked at Dr. Paxian, not sure what to say next. Dr. Paxian put a firm hand on Grey’s shoulder.

“Someone’s tried to get into your trunk, Mrs. Brandon.”

“What?” Her voice was mild, but the house shook. She clutched at her chest, where a pendant on a necklace might sit if she wore one. “Where is it? Where’s the key?” Suddenly she was looming over them, eyes black as ink, voice like all the disconcerting chords pounded at once. “Give it back! Give it—”

The house collapsed. Grey screamed as they fell through a void of darkness, a labyrinthine Nether Realm of void and darkness, of inky waters and scratching paper, of broken glass and slivers of doubt pressed every so slowly under their fingernails. They choked on it, squirming and grasping and…

Dr. Paxian’s hand was still firm upon their shoulder, and she pulled them from the void.

“What?” Grey looked around, but the darkness was absolute. They smelled musty rot and something worse.

“Easy, young Grey.”

Dr. Paxian was nearby, but Grey couldn’t see her. They reached out and found Dr. Paxian’s coat. Dr. Paxian took their head.

“Did you teleport us again?”

“No. I believe this is Mrs. Brandon’s doing. Give me a moment.”

Grey could feel the tickle upon their shoulder only a moment before a new trio of whisps blinked into existence, illuminating the room around them. They were in a small concrete room. A set of concrete steps in one corner led to a concrete slab. There had likely been a door there at one time, but no longer.

“I don’t remember stairs to a cellar,” Grey said, trying to stave off the panic building in their chest. “Where are we? Are we trapped?”

“Look there,” said Dr. Paxian.

Grey looked where she pointed to find an inexpertly wrapped bundle in the shape of a body huddled in the corner beside an old cabinet, door hanging open, shelves dusty.

“Is that Mrs. Brandon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who…”

“My client, likely. I’ve a friend with the police who will look into it and that, I hope, will allow Mrs. Brandon to let go without…” she tapped the yellow amulet.

Grey glanced at the stairs to nowhere. “So, that means you can teleport us through that?”

Dr. Paxian looked at the stairs and shook her head. “Not that way

The spell requires an open door on our end.”

“Then how…” Grey looked at the cabinet.

Dr. Paxian smiled. “Correct. You, young Grey, have been an excellent assistant. Now, hold tight.”

The tingle of magic lit up on Grey’s shoulders and this time, when they reached for it, something grabbed hold. It was like a memory. A memory written down in a small, leather bound notebook.

A moment later, they stood in the kitchen, just outside the pantry. The floor of the pantry was newly tiled, as evidenced by the impossibly clean grout lines. Whomever had murdered Mrs. Brandon had sealed her body in the tiny cellar under the pantry.

“You can read them, if you really want to. But please, don’t make a big fuss over them.”

Grey shivered and looked up to find Mrs. Brandon standing in the kitchen. She looked almost solid, an old lady with pale hair and a lined face. She was short, but stood tall. She had her glasses perched on her head and her hands shoved in the pockets of her blue jeans. She wouldn’t look at them.

“You have my word, Mrs. Brandon,” Dr. Paxian said. Then she nudged Grey with an elbow.

“Right,” said Grey. “Promise.”

The ghost looked at them and smiled. “All right then. Thanks for that.” She blushed. “I’m proud of them, but if too much fuss was made, I might just die of embarrassment.” The ghost looked down at herself, then laughed. A spark of light, pale blue and gold and something Grey couldn’t quite identify, lit upon her smile. It suffused her, like a joyful ode, a clever line, a satisfying ending.

And she was gone.

**• • •**

“Here you are, hon.”

A woman in an orange and blue uniform put a plate in front of Grey, pulling them from… something. Grey looked around, confused. They were in a booth at a diner. Grey knew it was a 24-hour diner. It was the place Dr. Paxian preferred to meet with clients. They had the best fries in town, or so Dr. Paxian claimed. Only a moment ago, they’d stood in the kitchen of a haunted house, and now…

The edges of reality fuzzed, pages in the wind. Grey knew they lay in bed in their dormroom back at Achebe Dormhall in Fairchild Academy. They knew that whatever this was, it was ending soon.

Dr. Paxian sat in the booth next to them. “Jim says they’ve got officers on the scene. And a jackhammer. They found Mrs. Brandon.”

Grey blinked and looked at the woman in the long, worn jacket and the battered, brimmed hat. She was real, Grey was certain she was real, but also… the pages fluttered again.

“Good,” Grey said, and the diner solidified. “That’s good. What will happen to the chest with all her writing?”

“Evidence, probably.” Dr. Paxian picked up the hamburger she’d ordered and took a bite. She wasn’t a delicate eater.

“And after? It won’t go to your client, will it?”

Dr. Paxian shook her head, chewed, and swallowed. “Jim tells me Sheldon, that’s the client, has signed some big publishing deal for the posthumous publication of his aunt’s work. But he won’t be in charge of the estate after this.”

“Did he kill her?”

Dr. Paxian picked up a fry and the ketchup bottle. She put a line of ketchup on the fry and popped it in her mouth. After a bit, she said. “That’s for the police to figure out. We did our job, young Grey. We helped Mrs. Brandon.”

“Right, but you promised. We both did. Not to make a big fuss over her work.”

Dr. Paxian nodded. “Never break a promise to a ghost.”

Grey shivered. “I suppose that’d be dangerous.”

Dr. Paxian shrugged. “No more dangerous than breaking a promise to anyone else. But it’s rude, and ghosts have it hard enough as it is. I’ll let whomever becomes the executor of the estate know what Mrs. Brandon said.”

“Good,” said Grey. The leaned back in the booth, their shoulders relaxing, their jaw unclenching. 

“You’re going fuzzy again, young Grey. And here I was hoping you’d be my assistant again.”


	4. Shovel the Walk

**Sidequest: Shovel the Walk**

Buried beneath their blankets, Grey was warm and calm and comfortable. It was early on a Saturday and they weren’t scheduled to work. To stay in bed, drift back to sleep, was the highest of their aspirations for several fuzzy moments. A moment later, they remembered Dr. Paxian and the Inky Specter. With a jolt of adrenaline, Grey scrambled to their feet.

There was no sign of the diner or ghost or Dr. Paxian.

The brass reading lamp with its green shade was still on. Grey clicked it off, then snatched up the paperback from the bedside table. It was _Dr. Paxian vs. The Void_ , the 11th book in the long-running series, and nothing like whatever it was Grey had experienced. It hadn’t been a dream. Grey didn’t have dreams like that. But neither could it have been real. There were stories, of course, stories of the twenty-seven realms and figures of legend managing all manner of magical feats. But this was the real world in modern times and things like that just didn’t happen anymore. Not outside book covers or movies screens or urban legends.

Grey put the book on the shelf, sliding it carefully, meticulously, into its spot. They moved carefully around the room, worried that to move too fast, to think too hard, would be to exile the experience to dim memory. They arranged their records, squared their lamp, and made their bed.

Everything in its place.

Outside, it still snowed. It was quarter past seven and dawn was on its way. Even so, with the heavy cloud cover it would be a gloomy day. Grey didn’t mind. It was perfect for staying inside and reading quietly. But they couldn’t ignore what had happened.

What was it? What did it mean? Had they truly learned…

Their shoulders tingled and Grey lifted the pillow to find their new leather-bound notebook right where they’d left it. It was small, fitting easily in the palm of their hand, and had an elastic ribbon worked into the cover, to hold it closed. Grey slipped the elastic off and opened the book. They hadn’t written in it. And yet they found the first page filled.

**Paxian’s Doorshift**

**Level 1, Inbetween Charm**

This spell allows the caster to enter one doorway and exit another.

Upon casting this spell, the caster must step through a doorway and choose another doorway within line of sight. Both must be whole and be intended as doorways (or gates, windows, et cetera), though only the first need be open.

When the caster steps through the first doorway, they exit on whichever side of the chosen doorway they prefer. 

It was the spell Dr. Paxian had used to move them about the haunted house. It was a spell that existed only in fiction. It was a spell Grey had never written in their notebook. But when they looked at the writing on the page, writing in their own hand, their shoulders tingled, their chest buzzed, their breath tasted richer and colors seemed brighter and they thought that maybe, just maybe if they could push that feeling through the words on the page… something might happen.

They snapped the book closed.

Grey decided, even though they weren’t scheduled to work this weekend, to shovel the snow from the sidewalks. Shoveling snow was easiest before people had walked on it, compressing it into ice that had to be scraped. The adrenaline of the adventure with Dr. Paxian meant Grey had to do something or risk going stir crazy. Staying in and reading quietly was no longer an option.

So they got dressed for winter: short sleeved shirt under a thin hoody under a winter coat; fleecy sweatpants under a pair of baggy jeans; thick fuzzy socks and sturdy boots. They shoved their gloves into a pocket of their coat and tucked the notebook into the inside pocket of their coat. They might have been imagining it, but Grey thought it felt warm against their chest.

The dormhall was dark and quiet. Grey made the way from their room to the commons near the entrance. There was a janitorial closet by the back doors they preferred. Grey had a key, being on staff, and used it to fetch a large snow shovel with a metal edge for scraping and a textured, horizontal grip. They let themselves out the front entrance, quiet as they could, into the muffled, snow-covered world.

It had to be dawn, or nearly so, for the dark clouds of winter were lightening, though not thinning. They stood for a moment under the overhang, zipped up their coat, and put on their gloves. The zipper was loud in the empty morning, yet muted by snow coming down in thick, wet clumps. Grey knew, even if they did the most thorough snow-shoveling job in history, that it would be undone thanks to the steady snowfall.

The overhang above the entry to Achebe Dormhall covered the first two-thirds of the stoop before the doors. The steps down to the sidewalk were broad and shallow. Grey made their way meticulously down the stairs, shoveling the snow from one end to the other, letting the metal edge scrape the concrete clean and dumping the snow in thick, wet piles, into the frozen garden beds.

Done with the stairs, Grey took a moment to look at the sidewalks running the down the center of the long courtyard and diverging to either side, leading to other buildings, and decided to focus on the central walk.

The only sounds were the scrape of the shovel, the whisper of their breath, and the occasional crunch of their boots on the snow. The quiet forced Grey to think.

_There are plenty of stories of magic. And lots of people, serious people, think those stories are true. But not anymore. Magic, if it ever existed, died out centuries ago. There’s just no such thing. And certainly I’ve never heard of someone getting sucked into a story before. Maybe I need to do some research. Professor Longhand knows about old stuff like this. Myths and legends and folktales. Maybe I should talk to him._

The space between Achebe Dormhall and the Academic Building was a long, park-like courtyard with several large trees, smooth lawns, a central fountain, and a web of sidewalks. Grey shoveled the central walk all the way to the fountain. Outside the winter months, the fountain was a nice spot to sit and read or do homework. They stopped and took a moment to look back the way they’d come, an irregular ridge of snow on either side of the sidewalk where they’d shoveled it, and a thin layer upon the path they’d cleared.

They looked the other way and their gaze was drawn to the clocktower atop the Academic Building. Most of the buildings on Fairchild Academy campus were stoneblock foundation and red-brick façade with tall windows and some fancy bits at the top. The clocktower rose from the center of the Academic Building another story-and-a-half tall. The clock face was smooth white stone with green-patinaed numbers, hands, and decoration. On a stone ledge below the clock face squatted a quartet of stone gargoyles, on each corner. And below the gargoyles, protruding from either side of the tower, were a pair of shallow balconies with carved-stone railings.

Grey had often wondered what it would be to stand upon those balconies, but access to the tower was restricted to the head custodian. Grey’s keys wouldn’t allow them access and even if they would, Grey wasn’t eager to lose their job. But then they thought of the notebook in the inside pocket of their jacket. Reflexively, they touched the spot with one gloved hand. Dr. Paxian had used her spell to step into one doorway and out of another.

But that hadn’t been real. It couldn’t have been.

And yet, the book felt warm through their clothes and a tingle slipped up and down their shoulders like the drifting of snow all about them.


	5. Cast a Spell

**Skillquest**

Grey blinked rapidly. The winter air was cold and dry and a made their eyes water. They sniffled and cleared their throat and looked about, considering. They looked to their left where the library main entrance was. Though the library was closed, the vestibule housing the book return wasn't, allowing access at all hours.

Dr. Paxian had said the spell required an open doorway.

Grey shoveled the walk toward the library, a building of red brick, like all the others, but with a curving entranced made mostly of windows and a quiet garden in back. Grey focused on their task, trying not to think too hard about the shiver of excitement building in their chest, lest it burst, dissipate to nothing, and never return.

The vestibule entrance was around the corner to the right of the main entrance, on the side wall between the library and the Science Building. The door was utilitarian, metal and glass. The vestibule itself was a polished concrete floor housing a covered slot that served as the book return. The vestibule looked like it'd been hastily glued onto the library, an outside room built after the fact.

Grey leaned the snow shovel against the wall with careful deliberateness. They stood at the door, then turned their back to it, looking past the Science Building to the clocktower standing against the low cloud cover. Moving slowly, Grey reached into their inside pocket, trying not to let the sleeve of their jacket rub against the breast of their hoodie, trying not to press against the lip of the pocket, trying not to disturb the world lest the magic fail.

Half afraid the text would be gone, the spell imagined, Grey opened the notebook before they could think better of it. They did not allow themselves relief when they found the spell still there: [Paxian's Doorshift].

...the caster must step through a doorway and choose another doorway within line of sight.

But what did it mean to cast the spell? Was there a chant? Special movements? Did they need a wand? Dr. Paxian hadn't needed a wand, but she did chant.

The buzzing in Grey's chest built and their vision fuzzed, just a bit. The text, written in their own hand, pulsed faintly, in time with that buzzing in their chest, with the pulse in their throat. That buzzing, dancing, tingle upon their skin reached for the text upon the page, yearned for it, ached for it. It gathered at the base of their skull, then pulsed down their arm toward the notebook.

And the spell written there.

...step through a... within line of...

They needed a doorway to walk through and one to look at., but when they looked away from the spell, the pulsing buzz faltered and faded. Desperately, Grey looked back at the notebook, open in their hand, and groped with the other for the vestibule door. In the next moment, their hand collided with the door, their vision went white, and their feet tangled. They tumbled into the door with a dull thump and a breathy grunt. There was just enough snow under their feet that they slipped. Trying to hang onto the door handle only pulled their glove off as they fell hard to their backside.

Grey's head rang and they tasted copper.

It took several moments of blinking and deep breaths before the numb shock passed and Grey could be sure they wouldn't cry. When the world was settled, they took another big breath to find themselves sitting on the frozen concrete with their back to the glass door of the vestibule. The tingling feeling was gone from their shoulders.

"You're such an idiot," they whispered.

Of course it wasn't real. How could it be? And even if it was, they were just a random high school kid who nobody knew well enough to know their name. Everyone got shivers or goosebumps or whatever – didn't mean it was magic.

"Get up, dummy." With a grunt of effort, Grey pushed to their feet.

They walked the few steps to where their glove had landed then a few more to the notebook, which lay closed and upon the frosty concrete. Grey stared at the notebook while pulling on the glove. They could leave the notebook. They could forget the whole thing. They could put this lonely humiliation in the back of their mind with all the others.

But the tingle of excitement returned to their shoulders.

"It's nothing," Grey admonished. Still, they pulled the glove snug, bent, and retrieved the notebook. They were about to tuck it away and go back to the dormhall when their gaze fell upon the vestibule door. It was largely made of glass. From within the little room, it would be easy to see the clocktower balcony and their open.

...step through a doorway and choose another doorway within line of sight.

Grey pulled open the door, stepped into the vestibule, and turned to look through the glass door to the clocktower balcony. The open doorway from the tower to the balcony was easily visible.

"Okay," they whispered. They flipped open the notebook to the page with [Paxian's Doorshift]. "Okay."

They took a deep breath and felt the strange sensation build again. With the notebook held up before them, Grey could both see the spell and look through the glass at the clocktower. Focusing on one made the other blurry, but they could see both. The shivering tingle of power built between their shoulders, pulsing in time with their heart, filling their torso, pressing at their senses until green yellow light edged their vision and riffling paper danced at the fringe of hearing.

The ink on the page of the notebook, the ink written in Grey's hand but not by it, edged with that same green yellow light. And it pulled at the power in their chest. For a moment, Grey held onto it, worried if they let go it would flee to the void and never return. But the words on the page were theirs. They were part of them. They called to them. And Grey let the mingle of sensations flow from their chest, down their arm, to the hand holding the notebook and the words of the spell.

The words flashed with chartreuse light.

A lightness of foot, a fleetness of step, a defiance of space settled about Grey. They opened the vestibule door, looked steadily at the balcony doorway, and stepped through. Space shivered and bent, then unfolded like stretching its back after sitting too long. It was bare a moment, but Grey blinked to find themselves standing upon the clocktower balcony.

On the one hand, Grey was well versed in adventure stories and the trope of the reluctant adventurer. On the other, this couldn't possibly be— Grey shook their head. They could only deny the obvious for so long before it became silly.

The balcony floor was smooth stone littered with drifts of dust and a few leaves left over from autumn. The floor ran from the balcony upon which they stood, into the tower, a large open room with nothing but a tight, iron wrought spiral staircase, to the balcony on the other side. The spiral stairs lead up into the workings of the clock and down into the building proper.

Grey stood just inside the tower, just inside the doorway. They turned and stepped onto the balcony. It was the width of the tower wall and curved. A stone railing supported by fluted columns stood at waist height. Snow crunched beneath their feet as they stepped up to the railing and looked over campus.

It was still, quiet, untouched but for where Grey had shoveled the walk. And even that work was being slowly undone by the persistent snowfall. They put one gloved hand upon the railing, compacting the snow. Their breath clouded heavily.

"Now what?"

They looked at the notebook in their other hand, still open, the ink upon the page in careful script. They hadn't written it, but there it was. With careful movements, Grey tucked the notebook within the inside pocket of their jacket. They swept snow from the balcony railing, watching it fall in clumps to the sloped, snow-covered ceiling of the Academic Building. Then their gaze was drawn to the library where they could just see the vestibule. The snow shovel leaned against the wall, by the door.

"Now what?" they asked again.

At each corner of the clocktower, above the balcony but below the clock, jutted great stone figures, gargoyles. They were crouching humanoids, grasping their perches with great clawed digits. Their wings lay against their backs like ribbed cloaks. Their faces were thick-featured and peaceful. The stone from which they were carved was dark grey flecked with all manner of subtle color.

Grey took a few minutes to examine each in turn, noting the subtle difference in position, expression, and coloration. They weren't, Grey noted, true gargoyles in that they didn't serve as gutters. Perhaps that made them grotesques, but that felt rude, so Grey continued to think of them as gargoyles.

"Now what?" Grey asked again, directing their question to the gargoyle with the thickest chin and most relaxed crouch. "Magic is real. I've got a bit. I should be thrilled, but..." The gargoyle was a good listener, but offered no counsel.

Grey shivered. The cold had caught up with them.

The notebook shivered and warmed against their chest. The trip from the balcony to the vestibule was as simple as allowing that buzzing power within to flow down their arm and to the spell, then stepping backward through the open doorway of the tower while looking at the doorway of the vestibule.


	6. Trial 02: Mug of Tea

**Trial 02: Mug of Tea**

With the shovel tucked in its closet, Grey made for their dormroom. As they passed the kitchen shared by the boarders of Achebe Dormhall, Grey noticed it was in use. They paused a moment to peek inside. Cameron, a boy whose room was a few doors down from Grey's, stood at the counter, pouring boiling water from the electric kettle into a tall, bright orange mug. It must have been Cameron's personal mug, because the dormhall's kitchen only had plain, short mugs in a variety of off white.

Cameron looked up. Grey took a step back.

Cameron was lanky, with curly black hair, sharp features, and thick glasses. He wore an oversized sweater, flannel pants, and slippers. Cameron was new to Fairchild Academy this semester, the nephew of Professor Longhand, longtime librarian of the academy. He blinked at Grey for several moments. Grey felt their throat close under the scrutiny.

"I saw you shoveling the sidewalk," Cameron said.

"Oh. Um, yeah," said Grey. They cleared their throat.

Cameron gestured with the kettle. "Tea?"

Despite their layers of clothes, lingering upon the balcony had left Grey cold. Their nose, toes, and fingers were especially frigid and snow was frozen in their hair despite the hoody. The thought of thawing out with a cup of tea was so cozy Grey nodded before thinking better of it.

Cameron smiled, but just a little. "Go change. I'll boil more water."

Grey was to their door before realizing the entire exchange had been friendly. It wasn't that everyone at Fairchild Academy was antagonistic, but none had been outwardly friendly for several semesters now. It seemed to Grey that most were indifferent.

Which was fine.

Grey changed into a fresh pair of soft sweat pants and a thin, long-sleeved shirt. They selected a paperback from the shelf without looking and put the notebook with [Paxian's Doorshift] under their pillow. For a moment, it felt wrong to leave the little leatherbound book behind, but the dormroom locked. It should be safe enough.

The kitchen on the first floor of Achebe Dormhall consisted of a refrigerator, microwave, sink, counterspace, and cupboards with a scattering of plain and mismatched dishes. Anyone was allowed to use the space and everyone was expected help keep it clean. There were a few small appliances, like a popcorn popper and an electrical kettle.

Most of the rest of the room was filled with small, round tables and plain, wooden chairs. Cameron sat at one of the tables, his orange cup of tea steaming. He was engrossed in a book lying flat on the table, twirling a pen absently between the fingers of his left hand. Another mug of tea, this one bright green, stood across from Cameron, like an invitation.

Grey swallowed hard.

Cameron didn't look up from his book as Grey sat across the table from him. "It's just black tea. Nothing special. But I thought you looked cold."

Grey lifted the mug to their face and took a deep breath. The warmth was enough to bring a glow to their cheeks and water to their eyes. It was too hot to sip yet, so Grey set it down and looked at the book they'd chosen: _Dr. Paxian and the Rat King_ , third book of the series.

"Thank you," Grey said.

"Sure."

Grey opened the book.

They wondered if they might experience another otherworldy adventure by opening the novel, but there was no tingle building at their shoulders, no riffling of reality, and soon they were focused on the mind-bending powers of the Rat King and Dr. Paxian's battle of wills with the miscreant. They sipped at the tea absently and passed more than an hour of companionable silence.

Eventually, the rest of the dormhall stirred and wakened. Cameron sighed, noted his page, and closed the book. "I suppose it's time to face the day. Do you have plans?"

Grey looked up from their book and took a moment to focus. "I suppose not. Usually I spend the weekends in my room."

Cameron nodded. "Sounds nice. My uncle insists I focus on studies so it doesn't look like I got in based on nepotism."

"Your uncle is Professor Longhand, right?"

Cameron nodded. "Seems like everyone knows." He sighed again. "Anyway, some of us have a study group. We meet in the library around nine on the weekends. If you want to join."

"Oh." Grey tried not to cringe outwardly at the invitation. It was nice. Kind even. And he'd wanted to meet Professor Longhand to ask about legends and such. "Well. Maybe."

Cameron smiled. "You tend to keep to yourself, don't you? It's fine if you don't want to show up, but the invitation stands." He picked up his bright orange mug and his book.

Grey drank the last of their tea, it was lukewarm, then handed it to Cameron.

"Hang on to it. That way we'll have to share a morning again."

**• • •**

Grey didn't go to the library. Instead, they whiled away the day in their dormroom, reading paperbacks, playing records, and scribbling in their notebooks. Not the one with the spell in it, but a different new one. They wanted to ask Professor Longhand about legends and which might be real, wanted to sit near to Cameron and read quietly, but the weekdays were filled with social interaction and Grey treasured the weekends for their stillness.

The snow thickened.

And when the day grew dark, Grey snuggled in bed and read until their mind grew heavy. Then they switched off the lamp, letting sleep embrace them.


End file.
